'Twas a year full of New Line – our twenty-fifth year!
(Just lasting that long is a reason to cheer.)
More than accolades, tributes, the raising of glasses,
Our shows this year knocked everyone on their asses.
No, we didn't rest on our laurels, no way;
We brought you great stories, with something to say
About us and America, how we should live;
We gave you the greatest gift artists can give,
A piece of ourselves (a tad alternative).

First up was a jaw-dropping moral subversion,
A psycho- and socio- inward excursion –
That's what Jerry Springer the Opera provided,
An MRI scan of a country divided.
This show was a deep, philosophical statement
On what's good and bad, and on what love and hate meant,
Yes, Springer was more than a dark, vulgar side show,
A literate trip to where some who have died go.
(The same place where critics most unqualified go.)

Our next trip was back to a London most gritty,
As Threepenny painted a picture quite shitty
Of amoral businessmen lie-cheat-and-stealing,
Betraying each other, 'midst much double-dealing.
This classic of theatre, all these many years later,
Is still just as edgy, its punch even greater.
It still tells the truth about human society,
Man's inner demons, his fake human piety,
And timely as hell, economic anxiety.

We then opened Heathers (one more trip to hell),
As the first show to play our new space, the Marcelle!
This musical comedy thriller had died
Off Broadway, but we saw it's smart and clear-eyed.
This show wasn't made for young families and tourists;
It only can thrive in the hands of real purists.
So we took it seriously, dug deep inside,
And we took our huge crowds on one hell of a ride.
We left them all shattered but still satisfied.

And speaking of space, our new home, the Marcelle,
Has got us all under its beautiful spell.
Designed by Rob Lippert, paid for by the Kranzbergs,
It's all that I've dreamed (there's no rhyme for "the Kranzbergs").
For so many years we were promised a theatre,
At long last it's real, and it's never felt sweeter.
It's gorgeous, there's storage, no leaks or distraction,
So close-up, you're practically inside the action.
An unqualified hit, judging by the reaction.

So onward we march – there's no rest for the gritty – it
Is time to move on to American Idiot.
Then to Atomic, then Tell Me on a Sunday.
(So many shows I would like to do one day...)
Twenty-five seasons (I can't be that old!),
Twenty-five years being ballsy and bold,
More shows still to come, not a one ordinary,
From this vulgar but passionate arts missionary.
We wish you good cheer and a Christmas So Very!